


A warm heart of stone

by la_esperance



Series: The Game is On collection [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:38:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_esperance/pseuds/la_esperance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty plays with Sherlock’s inquisitiveness and John has to deal with the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A warm heart of stone

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the “out of the ordinary” prompt

It was blistering cold but John didn’t mind. He wanted to be there. He _had_ to be there. He needed to be reminded of the man he still loved who was now cold marble. He needed to assure himself that the statute was still there and that his efforts weren’t for naught. He had to be there because it was the only way he could be with Sherlock, even if he had to trek to a forlorn corner of a vast cemetery and stand in a flurry of snow.

 _Don’t worry, love._ John thought as he caressed the statue’s cheek. _I’ll fix everything_

***

It was exactly one year after that incident that sent John’s world spiraling down a dark pit. He didn’t know who he hated more, Sherlock or the murderously psychotic Moriarty, for what had happened. There were nights when he cursed Moriarty and hoped he met a violent end.

Then there were days when John was sure it was all Sherlock’s fault. Damn Sherlock and his inquisitiveness! If he had more self-restraint, he wouldn’t have been so easily lured to Moriarty who used him as guinea pig. And look where he was now. Look where _Sherlock and John_ were now.

Despite the utter uselessness and stupidity of it, John lashed out at the statue, giving it hard smack across one cheek. The only results were that his hand stung like hell and he felt more miserable than ever.

“John.”

He knew whose voice it was so he didn’t turn around, didn’t even give any sign that he had heard the man and acknowledged his presence. He was sure Mycroft had something important to tell him or else he wouldn’t have trekked out on a humid day. In any case, John only wanted to hear what it was he had to say, niceties be damned.

“John, you know that Sherlock and Moriarty practiced strange alchemy. Your knowledge in battle alchemy and curative alchemy won’t help you.”

Ah. John sharpened his hearing. Strange alchemy was the alchemy of miracles and something that not many people practiced, not only because it was difficult to learn but also because of the risks involved in using it. It was the kind of alchemy that brilliant people like Sherlock, Moriarty and Mycroft dealt in.

“In strange alchemy, John, its effects last only as long as the one who cast it is alive. Miracles need something to live on, after all.” Mycroft paused. “Kindly remember that knowledge of this is taboo.”

“Why are you telling me this?” John asked hoarsely.

Mycroft decided to answer him by telling him that he needed to make a philosopher’s stone first before setting out to weed out Moriarty. After all, John didn’t know how long it would take before he’d find Moriarty or what injuries he may suffer along the way.

As Mycroft left, John thought about his options and then repeated the promise he had been making to Sherlock for the past 365 days. 

***

Fifty years later and John didn’t look a day over thirty-eight. He had perfected the Philosopher’s stone and he was using it to prolong his life. Why he did so John wondered at. Five decades had passed since Moriarty had turned Sherlock into stone. It was five decades of misery, desperation and a love that hurt him to his core. 

Twenty-seven years ago, he had killed Moriarty. In a stroke of manic joy, John had gone to the cemetery afterwards, hoping to find Sherlock warm and living. What a heartbreaking disappointment it was to find his lover still hard and cold. But Mycroft had assured him with such tenacity that made John wonder how he had come by such knowledge. It was only a matter of time, Mycroft had said.

“How long will it take?” John whispered desperately as he knelt on the ground, his hands clinging to Sherlock’s. “How long must I wait?” 

Then his gaze suddenly snapped upwards. He was sure his name had been whispered. He looked up at the statue and frowned. Had its head moved? It seemed that it was now tilted downwards as if it were looking at him. He stood up and was shocked that his hands were now being held firmly by marble fingers that were surprisingly warm.

He could have sworn that the statue was now smiling. And then there were tears, huge clear tears rolling down Sherlock’s cheeks. Hoping against hope, John leaned upwards and kissed him.

And Sherlock’s lips were soft and warm.


End file.
